


tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us

by quietkids



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Future Fic, M/M, Mostly Canon Compliant, national team ensemble, 中文翻译 | Translation in Chinese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25887904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietkids/pseuds/quietkids
Summary: Iwaiziumi’s fingers drum on the table,tap tap tap, and his half-smile even more lopsided, and then—“You still love him.”Memory is a lit match, and Atsumu's throat burns bright.
Relationships: Iwaizumi Hajime/Miya Atsumu, Kita Shinsuke/Miya Atsumu
Comments: 22
Kudos: 170





	tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote one scene like 2 weeks ago and then couldn't sleep one night so here it is.  
> also the playlist i had on loop: [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/7dw9SyjnWp6mfRb71tHLSS?si=bw3eks3gRjOGiC0GJ1v4Tw) (but particularly smoke signals) <3 have fun  
> this is now available in [Chinese](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26286421) !!! thank you so much to the translator!!  
> cw: drinking (not underage)

_I went to the riverbed to wait for you to show up.  
You didn’t show up.  
I kept waiting._

— Richard Siken, “I Had A Dream About You”

  
  


*****

  
  


Iwaizumi Hajime is introduced to the national team 3 days into the season. He’s tan and muscular and wears black polos and has maybe too nice of a watch for an athletic trainer. He introduces himself to everyone, says he’s 27 and from Miyagi, and he’s pleased to meet all of them, remeet some of them.

Atsumu’s curious, like he always is, and looks at Iwaizumi long after his speech is done and throughout the coaches’ _new season new you_ speeches, and instead watches him fiddle with his bright pink (maybe Sanrio?) pen.

Atsumu leans over.

“Hey, Shoyo-kun.” He’s whispering.

Sakusa throws him a dirty glance. Atsumu ignores it. 

“He’s not interested,” Hinata says before Atsumu can even ask anything—Atsumu protests weakly, that he wasn’t going to ask _that_ , and then the coach overhears and has him running suicides after practice while the rest of them go home, with Sakusa saying _you deserved it_ under his breath and Aran pretending like he doesn’t know Atsumu at all. 

Atsumu flips them off as they’re leaving, with as much grace as he can muster. 

He’s in the gym for another hour, and he spends the entirety of it running and watching the new trainer and the coach sitting in the bleachers, discussing something involving big medical words that Atsumu doesn’t understand. Still, he looks at Iwaizumi unabashedly, eyes flickering from his tanned forearms to the stretch of his pants over his thighs and then to his hands, moving animatedly as he talks.

_Iwaizumi Hajime. 27. From Miyagi._

Atsumu smiles, then, to no one in particular.

  
  


*****

  
  


Atsumu tasks himself with finding out anything, everything about _Iwaizumi-san_. He watches him talk to the coaches on the sidelines, every morning, with his big clipboard and colorful assortment of Sanrio pens and black polo shirt and too-expensive watch.

Iwaizumi had caught him staring once, and Atsumu had smiled and waved, unbothered, and he had asked, 8 in the morning, halfway through a drill, whether he could call him _Hajime_. 

Iwaizumi smiles and says, _no, Miya Atsumu, you can’t._

Shoyo rolls his eyes and mouths an apology to Iwaizumi ( _he’s always like this, sorry about it_ ) and Iwaizumi mouths _it’s alright_. Atsumu pretends he doesn’t see either part of this exchange and takes the ball Shoyo’s handing to him. 

He taps Shoyo on the shoulder and smiles, his brown eyes glinting, and says, _hey, Shoyo-kun, let’s invite him to team dinner. You know, a Friday night tradition that we definitely have._

Shoyo shoves him to the endline and he looks at Atsumu and sighs and says, _yeah, fine, if you hurry up and serve._

 _Deal_. 

Atsumu tosses the ball, high and just slightly forward, three steps, and then swings, and the ball lands solidly on the other side’s end-line. He lands and turns to look at Iwaizumi, who’s smiling, and he tucks his clipboard under his elbow, the Sanrio pen behind his ear, and he pretends to clap. 

“Give us another one, ‘Tsumu!” Bokuto shouts from the front, and so Atsumu does.

Each movement, each sideways glance, a _watchmewatchmewatchme._

Four hours later they’re all in the locker room, half of them sprawled out on benches, almost asleep, the others toweling their hair, and then maybe three of them trying to remember where they had put their socks. 

“Team dinner tonight,” Atsumu announces. 

He’s met with groans from Sakusa and Yaku, and maybe even Shoyo, but Kageyama and Ushijima shrug, and Hoshiumi says he’s hungry anyway, and Bokuto springs up beside him.

“I’m in, ‘Tsumu! Where should we go?”

He sits back lazily, crossing his right leg over his left. “Up to you.” 

Atsumu pauses, and then he looks over at Aran, who is already holding his head in his hands. 

“Hey, let’s invite the trainer. Iwaizumi.”. 

Aran looks at him. “Leave the poor man _alone,_ Atsumu.” 

“No, come on! I bet he wants new friends. And I want to know what he’s writing on his clipboard all the time, anyway.”

“Probably trainer things,” Shoyo says dully, “like a trainer would do.”

Atsumu waves his hand airily. 

“Anyway, Bokuto, where are we going?” 

All of them end up piled in a single train car during evening rush hour, their bags bumping up against legs and they all get their fair share of dirty glances, but Atsumu doesn’t mind, because in the end, Aran had conceded, and now it’s the entirety of the national Japanese men’s volleyball team _and_ Iwaizumi Hajime, in his black polo and ironed khakis on the Yamanote line, blind faith in Bokuto’s taste and sense of direction.

Atsumu makes it a point to sit across from Iwaizumi when they get to the restaurant— a run-down establishment with splotchy menus, filled to the brim with people, pop music loud and staticky in the background. The table’s way too small, Atsumu’s shins knocking into Iwaizumi’s (maybe he’s doing it on purpose), and they all order too much beer for a weeknight, and the table quickly dissolves into loud, rambunctious laughter. 

An hour passes and Iwaizumi looks wholly different, his jaw relaxed and his arms no longer crossed and no pen tucked behind his ear— Kageyama and Hinata are 3 beers in, each, and asking him about California and whether there really are surfers everywhere, every day, and whether he had seen a palm tree. Atsumu watches the three of them, rapt with attention, swishing his drink back and forth in his hand absentmindedly, letting the leftovers on the table grow cold. 

Iwaizumi’s laughing now, loud and guttural, and at some point, he reaches over and ruffles Kageyama’s hair, and Kageyama _looks_ at Iwaizumi, who is now so _warm_ and steady and unwavering, and Atsumu, dazed and almost-drunk, realizes who Iwaizumi reminds him of.

Atsumu knows that he needs to get up, he needs to leave, but his feet are glued to the floor, his glass still rocking back and forth in his hand—he pushes his chair back and mutters something about the bathroom, and Iwaizumi pauses halfway into his third frat party story, and he looks up at Atsumu, his brows knit with concern, and this somehow makes it worse than it was. He’s almost running now, at least as much as he can in the din of the crowded restaurant, tripping over bags and feet and waiters. 

The bathroom has thin walls and for some reason, strobe lights, and Atsumu can still hear the thudding music, and the person in the only stall is suffering from something terrible—Atsumu lets out a ghost of a laugh as he leans over the sink basin and peers into the mirror, maybe a little bit disgusted with himself. 

He’s breathing more evenly now, and he remembers that he was the one who convinced the rest of them to drag Iwaizumi out on a weeknight. Atsumu’s eyes are red-rimmed, or maybe it’s just the lighting of the bathroom, but he splashes his face with water anyway and smiles at himself, just for practice. 

Atsumu walks back out to their table, and Iwaizumi’s eyes flick up at Atsumu and he smiles, his cheeks flushed red, half-heat, half-alcohol. 

Atsumu smiles back as he slides into his chair, lacing his hands together under his chin, and then he says _Iwaizumi-san_ , and Atsumu watches as he flushes an even deeper shade of pink. Atsumu stares at Iwaizumi’s green-hazel eyes with too much intensity for the room, and he tilts his head to one side, a saccharine smile written all over his face, almost as if to ask _so, what about us?_

The table has slipped into a comfortable silence and Hajime coughs awkwardly, glancing off to the side. His phone rings, then, almost immediately, his face slipping into something far-off, and he says, _sorry, I have to take this,_ and then he’s gone, cash thrown on the table and the restaurant’s doorbell clanging in the breeze. 

Atsumu sits back, mildly disappointed, but mostly relieved, and he can feel Aran’s eyes boring into his back. Atsumu ignores him and steals what’s left of Tobio’s beer, and he watches as Shoyo and Tobio fall asleep on each other’s shoulders, and Ushijima and Hoshiumi talking about something too loudly, and Aran and Yaku laughing at something on Yaku’s phone, and Atsumu lets the amber liquid slide down his throat and into his stomach, his eyes glazed over.

  
  


*****

  
  


When Atsumu is 14 and bored on a weekend, he decides to try something new. He buys boxed bleach from the pharmacy and forgets to read the instructions. He looks great, though, he’s pretty sure, and he walks into practice, training bag slung over one shoulder, chin tipped up, his sneakers loud on the freshly waxed court.

Osamu’s already there, slouched against the wall, his earbuds in, his hands in his training jacket. He sees Atsumu and laughs, harder than he had in the morning as they were walking to school. 

“You look dumb as shit.”

“Shut up.”

They’re warming up when Kita, ball in one hand, walks over and takes a section of Atsumu’s bangs between his fingers and frowns. 

“Your hair is completely fried.”

Osamu’s behind him and he’s trying to hold back a laugh and Atsumu kicks him as discreetly as he can, and then Osamu kicks him back.

“Fuck you.” 

Atsumu forgets to do his algebra homework that night, instead looking through Wikihows and 2007 beauty blogs and at some point a Seventeen article— he stays in the bathroom late that night, running coconut oil through his ends, grimacing as the grease drips down all over the sink and into the drain. It’s all over his shirt and somehow in his nose and he’s swearing to himself that he’ll never buy the coconut-flavored aloe ever again.

Osamu’s outside the door. He’s been knocking for the past 10 minutes.

“‘Tsumu, I’m going to fucking piss myself.”

“I hope you do.” 

He opens the door anyway. 

Osamu rushes in and stares at him, face blank, eyes wide, like he’s on the brink of a punchline to an extremely funny joke, but has decided against it. 

Atsumu’s cheeks are flushed red from the heat of the bathroom, his shirt collar littered with splotches. 

“Shit, Kita-san’s got you wrapped around his finger.”

Osamu’s face has settled back into its usual half-asshole stasis, no longer mouth open with surprise, and maybe if Atsumu looks long enough, a glimmer of a smile, a glimmer of _god you’re stupid, and I hate you, but it’s kind of funny,_ and then he’s taking a picture and Atsumu’s mouth drops open in betrayal, but by then it’s already too late. The entirety of Inarizaki’s volleyball team has it now, and they will print out copies to slide in Atsumu’s locker and his backpack until weeks later.

Later, Atsumu’s cleaning out his locker for the 3rd time in a week, and he’s muttering under his breath, and then he hears a _do you want help_ , and he spins around and sees Kita Shinsuke, second year, hand reaching out, wearing a small smile. Atsumu feels red creeping up his neck, and he can’t tell if it’s because of Osamu’s shitty blackmail photo or Kita’s sliver of a smile and his bangs falling to one side, but he says, _yeah, sure, thanks,_ anyway.

  
  


*****

  
  
The summer before Atsumu’s second year and Kita’s third is when he says _Shinsuke_ for the first time.

It hadn’t even been romantic, no electricity dripping from Atsumu’s lips, just Kita folding his laundry at 6 in the morning, Atsumu half-asleep and staring at the shifting light on his shoulder blades and the beauty mark on his forearm, and he had said it, the room silent save for the shifts of fabric and the rustle of bedsheets. Just _the morning is beautiful, Shinsuke._

And _Yeah, Atsumu, it is._

  
  


*****

  
  
They’re playing practice games when Bokuto hits a straight in the gap between Ushijima and Atsumu, and the ball grazes Atsumu’s pinky and ring finger before it flies out of bounds, into the bleachers. Bokuto apologizes as soon as he lands, maybe even before then, and he’s almost yelling when he asks if Atsumu’s okay (he is), and Ushijima looks on, his brows knit and head tilted 30 degrees to the left.

Atsumu tells Bokuto it’s fine, it’s okay really, but he still takes the hit with the grace of a first grader with a skinned knee, all melodrama and he’s holding his hand out to Shoyo. Shoyo is used to Atsumu by now, his amber eyes flicking between Atsumu’s hand and his carefully practiced pout before he sighs and pushes him off the court and with a wave to Hoshiumi, he walks him to Iwaizumi’s office. 

“Shoyo, I’m scared. You should stay with me.”

Shoyo smiles. “No, Atsumu-san, you’re not.” 

He sits himself down and looks around; Hajime’s office is as boring as it gets, gray-yellow walls and large anatomy posters with skinless men, and his desk is empty, save for the biggest binder Atsumu has seen in his life. He continues to look around, for even the slightest bit of high school memorabilia, maybe a souvenir shot glass from Cali, but then Iwaizumi appears in the doorway. His face already has concern written all over it, and before Atsumu says anything, he has already taken Atsumu’s hand into his, Iwaizumi’s fingers running over Atsumu’s knuckles and over his fingers, flipping his hand over and then back again. Atsumu laughs, lightly, because he knows it’s nothing serious. 

“So, Iwaizumi-san. Diagnose me.” 

Iwaizumi looks at him, properly, for the first time since that night in the restaurant, and then, with a shit-eating grin, begins to trace the lines on Atsumu’s open palm.

“This line says that you’re going to die early and alone. This line, though, that one says that you’re going to have 27 illegitimate kids who all hate you.”

Atsumu’s mouth drops open. 

“What’s wrong with you.”

Iwaizumi shrugs. 

“You asked.” 

He pulls away, placing Atsumu’s hand back onto his lap, and gives him a bag of ice. 

“You’ll be fine. Just ice it and I’ll tape you and it’ll be alright.” 

“So professional, Iwaizumi-san.” 

“This is my job, Atsumu.” 

“Ah, right.” 

The two of them sit there, in almost-comfortable silence, until the ice starts to melt and the bag begins to drip all over the floor. 

Iwaizumi takes the bag from Atsumu and pulls out his roll of athletic tape. 

“Just hold your hand out.” 

Atsumu watches as Hajime unfurls the tape, his brows furrowed, so concentrated and so cautious that it almost makes him want to laugh, but he doesn’t.  
Iwaizumi takes Atsumu’s right hand with his left and he’s wrapping the tape around his fingers, so slow and deliberate and careful.

Atsumu’s heart jumps into his throat, watching Iwaizumi wind the tape around his hand, and he doesn’t realize he’s holding his breath until Iwaizumi steps back.

“All good?” 

Atsumu flexes his wrist, partly as a joke and partly not, and he smiles.

“Thanks, Iwaizumi-san. I’ll make sure to write you a glowing Yelp review.”

Iwaizumi takes the half-melted bag of ice and flicks the condensation at him.

“Go back to practice.” 

Atsumu hops off the table and he’s halfway through the doorway before he stops. He turns around, just enough to see Iwaizumi leaning against his bare desk, with his arms crossed.

“Sorry if I was weird at the restaurant the other day.”

Iwaizumi looks confused, for a split second, and then, “Don’t worry about it.”

Atsumu nods and turns around again, about to walk out, and then something makes him change his mind and he spins around, standing face-to-face with Iwaizumi. 

“So, can I call you Hajime-kun now?”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes.

“You’re almost there, Atsumu.”

  
  


*****

  
  
The team goes to Yaku’s apartment one night because they have a week off from practice, a “hangout” that spirals into Yaku bringing out his liquor from overseas and Kuroo (uninvited) bringing his university friends and maybe-expired (he promises they’re not) bottles of overly sweet soju.

From what Atsumu remembers, too drunk for most of the party, Yaku has a stupidly well-decorated apartment to match the stupidly fancy suits he wears on weekends, and that he had walked in on Kuroo and Yaku hooking up in the closet at one point—but other than that, he doesn’t remember much.

He remembers lying dazedly on the couch, sprawled over Iwaizumi, who had shown up an hour into the whole thing, his eyes shot red and phone clenched in one hand. He remembers Iwaizumi’s hand on his thigh, and then he remembers the two of them leaving, stumbling across the doorstep and then the pavement with their shoes untied, Atsumu’s mouth loud and filled with laughter and Iwaizumi’s jacket half-buttoned.

They were walking, for a long time, when they had heard the bushes rustling, and they had looked at each other, eyes wild with alarm, and then they had sprinted, blocks and blocks, until they were breathless. 

The two of them, leaning against a flickering streetlight, their hands on their knees, chests aching, and they were laughing, loud and bright and crystal clear—Atsumu had turned to look at Iwaizumi then, his black hair mussed, eyelashes long, his cheekbones illuminated in the din of the street, the last of the season’s cicadas echoing around them, and Atsumu had leaned in—and Atsumu discovers that he likes the way _Hajime_ tastes in the pit of his sternum, on the tip of his tongue, the ridges of his teeth, and he forgets how long the two of them stay there, the evening falling over their shoulders, like they are the protagonists in an old 35mm movie, the streets smelling like stale piss and cigarette smoke, and their bodies, pressed together, the two of them, against the rest of the world.

They make it to Atsumu’s apartment, somehow, and Iwaizumi stumbles over Atsumu’s doorstep and Atsumu pulls him into his bedroom with his partly-made bed and books strewn over his nightstand, and the two of them lie there, until sleep washes over and overwhelms them, and they stay there, limbs tangled under the sheets, hand on thigh and collarbone on ribcage, until morning. 

Atsumu wakes up early the next day, his head splitting and eyes struggling to focus, and he sees Iwaizumi sitting on the edge of the mattress, his shoulders, sinewy and tanned, shrouded by the quiet darkness of the room. Atsumu watches, feeling vaguely voyeuristic, as Iwaizumi pulls his shirt, worn blue cotton, over his head, the bedsprings creaking as he rises. 

“Hey.” Hajime turns to look at him. “You’re awake.”

Atsumu shudders, unwillingly, his grip tightening on the bedsheets, as Hajime reaches out to cup his jaw in his hand, and Hajime smiles at him. The collar of Hajime’s shirt droops slightly as he leans over, and Atsumu’s eyes land on bruises, blooming purple-pink, and he smiles as he looks back up. 

The warmth of the morning light makes Hajime’s eyes look more hazel than deep green and it reminds Atsumu of someone, somewhere else. 

But Atsumu blinks and then he sees Hajime again. 

“I gotta go,” Hajime whispers, voice low. He leans over and plants a gentle kiss between Atsumu’s brows, and warmth spreads through his ribcage, and spills over out onto his skin. Then he takes his hand off Atsumu’s face and walks over to the door, turns around to smile, for maybe the first time, maybe the last time, before he disappears into the foyer, footsteps light. 

Atsumu wants to say something. He wants to say _don’t leave._ And he would, if he could get his body to move and his mouth to open, he would scream it from the rooftops, and he would say it, he would say don’t leave, with all the patheticism and longing and childishness.

The front door’s already slammed shut before Atsumu realizes he forgot to ask Hajime whether he’d come back. 

Atsumu’s staring at the ceiling now, and he remembers there’s a family in the apartment upstairs and he hears the clattering of a pot and a kid running, heavy footsteps, and distant scolding. Maybe a mother in her business suit, applying sunscreen in the hallway mirror, a lunchbox shoved in a backpack, a bright yellow raincoat draped over narrow shoulders. 

Atsumu closes his eyes again, and this time, an unspeakable sadness washes over him like the morning tide. There is a lifetime of 26 years hidden somewhere in his rundown room, in the energy bar wrapper in the corner, in the morning light sneaking in through the half-drawn blinds, in the wad of bubblegum stuck underneath the bed frame, in the paint chips flaking from the ceiling. 

A gentle kind of humanity, the quiet kind, the kind that seeks out people it can never follow.

  
  


*****

  
  
Inarizaki loses to Karasuno on their first day at the Spring Interhigh.

The bus ride back to the gym had been quiet, most of them asleep, spent after crying, Atsumu looking out the window, and Osamu slumped over, earbuds in, softly snoring, hands buried in his jacket pockets. Kita had sat in the front, he and Aran and their coach, an occasional laugh drifting over as the bus rocked, the waning afternoon light flitting in. 

The seniors give their speeches in the gym and the first years help clean out the clubroom, and then they’re all saying goodnight, voices hoarse and bodies tired, the gym doors slammed shut. 

Atsumu waits outside for almost a half-hour for Kita to finish talking with the coaches, scuffing his shoes into the dirt. He finds Atsumu there, leaning against the school wall, his breath milk-white and his knuckles red from the cold. 

They had started to walk, as they had done for a long time, and then Atsumu had said, _I promise I’ll make you proud again_ , the way he had on the court, and then he had said, half-command and half-pleading, _don’t forget that._

Shinsuke had stopped walking, and he looked at Atsumu, only a sliver of his face illuminated by the streetlight, and he had said, _Atsumu, do you really think I could forget?_ ( _forget you,_ unsaid but understood)—and Atsumu’s heart had dropped into his stomach, his mouth dry, and he had said, _no_. 

And then they kept walking, with the buzz of the mosquitos, and Shinsuke had taken Atsumu’s hand in his, the both of them shivering from the night air, but they had still been warm.

They stop at Kita’s front door, and Kita lets go of Atsumu’s hand and then turns around to look at him, just a boy in the moonlight, and he reaches up and parts Atsumu’s bangs, his touch lingering a second too long on his forehead, and Atsumu breathes in, sharp. 

And then Shinsuke says _goodnight, Atsumu, make sure to sleep well,_ and Atsumu says _thanks, Shinsuke,_ while thinking _I love you_ and then _sorry,_ and then the door closes, the wood blue-black and Atsumu’s forehead white-hot, and he’s staring at nothing in particular.

  
  


*****

  
  
Atsumu gets recruited to the V. League when he’s about to graduate high school. Aran texts him "congratulations" and then immediately, something about how the Falcons were going to beat them 25-0. Osamu rolls his eyes when he finds out, but he’s smiling at the same time, because _of course, we had always known this,_ and then they’re graduating and Atsumu’s moving to Tokyo and Osamu lands some big investor and he’s building a shop in Hyogo and then they’re growing up.

Shinsuke had called him, too, that day.

The call had been crackling with static, and Atsumu had heard a “Congratulations,” half-whispered into the line, and he had closed his eyes, imagining Shinsuke’s mouth curling at the edges, his cheek dimples, asymmetrical, deepening in the sunlight-- and then a “Sorry, my connection’s kind of bad,” and Atsumu had laughed and said “Don’t worry, Shin-chan, I know you’re proud of me,” and then maybe there had been a sliver of an affirmation, maybe he had _heard_ Kita nod, and then the line goes dead. 

Atsumu had stared at the stark-white paper of the contract in front of him, one hand pressing his phone to his ear like he’s still expecting to hear something, the other holding a pen, hovering above the signature line. A minute passes and then he drops the phone on the table and the pen onto the paper, and then he sits, for a long time. 

Atsumu plays with the Black Jackals and he’s friends, or close enough, with Koutarou and Kiyoomi and Shoyo, who’s back from Brazil and who has changed in a way that Atsumu can’t put his finger on-- he trains five times a week and FaceTimes Osamu to ask him how to use his rice cooker and remembers to do his laundry-- because he’s independent, he’s moving on.

Every time he’s on the court, with it’s neatly drawn white boundaries, perfect demarcations and delineations, and when he’s staring up at the ceiling lights, Atsumu wonders, absently, fingers gripping the ball, sweat sliding down the back of his jersey, if Shinsuke’s watching. 

Maybe he is. 

Maybe he isn't.

Maybe Atsumu’s afraid to know the answer.

  
  


*****

  
  
Iwaizumi _does_ come back to Atsumu’s apartment, and at some point, they were both sober, and it was still morning, and he had kissed Atsumu again.

Nothing else changes, no _I love yous,_ but Atsumu finds Hajime at the table every morning, a pot of black coffee already lukewarm. 

Atsumu had made fun of him for his black coffee, had said asked _so you don’t feel pretentious enough already, with your watch and five pairs of khakis,_ and Iwaizumi had rolled his eyes, wrinkling his nose in disgust, all-too familiar and his mouth tightening at the corners, as Atsumu dumped sugar and Splenda and milk in his mug until the coffee had gone almost white. 

They had shared a smile then, just 5 inches between their mouths, a quick one—the both of them dropping their gazes after a split second, abashed, for some reason. 

Atsumu has to remember to pick up groceries for two now, since Iwaizumi works later hours than him and stays up, sometimes until morning, poring over his old textbooks, and Atsumu has enough free time to feel guilty about it. And it’s fine, because he likes the grocery store, with its neat rows of chili oil and black bean paste and mirin, and the cashiers who are middle-aged ladies and recognize him after his third visit and call him _Atsumu-kun._

Tuesday evening, he’s there, Hajime stuck at the gym because of some workshop with the second-string players. Atsumu walks mindlessly through the aisles, throwing anything his eyes land on into the basket, and he reminds himself to Google a new recipe (what to make with rice and bonito flakes and half of the leftover spinach?) when he gets home. 

He’s halfway back before he remembers Hajime had asked him to pick up some fancy brand of sesame oil, and Atsumu digs through his plastic bags, frustrated, because maybe he had forgotten that he had bought it, and instead he finds that he’s bought three different brands of umeboshi—and then Atsumu remembers, somehow just slipping back into consciousness, a plastic bag on a locker room bench, a bottle of Calpis and a clear plastic container of umeboshi and a light yellow post-it note, _Dear Atsumu, eat a proper meal and then sleep_ —and he could see Shinsuke, at the neighborhood grocery store, and then with his favorite black gel pen and his clean stack of post-its, smiling as he signed his name.

Suddenly, the rush of the cars on the road beside him is too loud and the sound of children on bicycles clamoring and laughing floats thickly through the purple-ink night, and Atsumu’s hands are shaking and he’s not sure where he is anymore.

  
  


*****

  
  
A week before Shinsuke graduates, he asks Atsumu whether they can talk after class. He knows this will go one of two ways, most likely the latter, and his stomach curls into apprehension.  
They meet in the stairwell, after the teachers and most of the students had left for the day, the only sound in between them the trees knocking against the windows.

They sit down, legs crossed over one another, like old lovers in a penthouse apartment during summer, and then Shinsuke breaks the silence. 

_I’m leaving soon._

_Yeah._

_You know how I feel about the whole long-distance thing._

Shinsuke’s eyes are golden, honey, his pupils like flies trapped in amber, and he suddenly looks a lot older than 17. 

_I can’t be with you and not see you, not touch you._

(Unspoken: to be with you is being devoured, to be with you without you is to be like Tantalus, knee-deep in a pool of water, fruit swaying low, sweetness grazing against lips, but never in reach).

Atsumu had agreed, because he had always known that Kita was never going to stay, and he had let a laugh slip between his lips, because it was such a _Kita_ thing to say, with his whole devotion thing and Atsumu should have known, and maybe he had. 

“Don’t cry.” 

Shinsuke leans over now, and tilts Atsumu’s chin up with his hand, and runs his thumb over his lash line, his cheekbone. 

“‘M not.” And his head had fallen onto Shinsuke’s chest, and he had held Atsumu, in the quiet of the stairwell, arms wrapped around him, dust flitting in with the sunlight; a moment, suspended. Shinsuke’s hand traces circles in the dip of Atsumu’s back, Atsumu breathing into the well-worn fabric of Kita’s uniform, and they are both breathing—and if Atsumu had looked up then, he would have seen _Shinsuke_ , sad and gentle and human, his face like dusk in summer. 

The third years have their ceremony and Aran makes Atsumu take photos on a crappy disposable camera, which Atsumu frowns at when it’s handed to him, but then Kita, in his black suit and combed-back hair, smelling like earth and rain and linen shows up beside him, and gives him a look that said _come on, it’s the last time._

And Atsumu had swallowed, and held up the camera to his eye, and said _smile_ , and they all do, the sun setting behind them, and Atsumu had looked at Shinsuke, his eyelashes made longer by the shadows, and he had thought, the camera shutter clicking, _you look so beautiful, but I don’t know if I’m allowed to say that anymore._

A week passes, and then Kita’s on the shinkansen to Niigata, with his clothes and books and a scarf, wrapped neatly around his neck, ( _how typical,_ Atsumu had thought, watching the fabric flutter as the train pulled into the station), a goodbye half-formed on Atsumu’s lips. 

Shinsuke had looked back, once, after he had gotten on the train, and then he was a blur, incomplete, the same way a song sounds underwater.

  
  


*****

  
  
It’s morning again, weeks after Yaku’s party and weeks after the grocery store, the season picking up and Atsumu and Iwaizumi increasingly busy, their exchanges limited to _good morning_ and _good night_ and _did you remember to pick up the laundry_ (to which the answer is always no).

Atsumu walks in and finds Iwaizumi already sitting in the dining room, like he always is, a half-drunk cup of black coffee in front of him, one arm slung on the back of the chair and the other resting on the table, spinning Atsumu’s salt shaker between his fingers, his legs crossed and barely fitting under the table, the one Atsumu picked up at a flea market, the one he picked up and thought _it’s big enough for one._

Iwaizumi watches him walk in and offers a crooked smile.

“Hey.”

Atsumu opens the cabinet.

Iwaizumi continues. “You had a dream last night.” It’s not a question, and Atsumu swallows, hard. He stares at his almost empty cupboard, with its 3 souvenir mugs and sloppily tied bread bags, with enough intensity to make it seem like he is looking for something—- he remembers the dream, of course he does, but he is still, stupidly, searching for some excuse, some joke to make— _well, Hajime-kun, was it the wet kind_ —or maybe something else, a joke about a childhood fear and Iwaizumi’s arms— 

“You were saying someone’s name.” Iwaizumi tilts his head to the side, almost as if he’s reconsidering. He sighs and clicks his tongue. Atsumu’s back is turned to him, and he reaches for the bread bag and unties it with deliberate slowness, as if this could slow time. He reaches into the cupboard again and pulls out a porcelain plate.

“Shinsuke, I think.” 

The soft lighting of the room shatters, the curtains, the ones that Atsumu hates, the ones with zigzag orange stripes that he got in the mail from Suna who said it was a gift from Osamu who said it was a gift from their aunt, ugly and garish and too loud—Iwaizumi’s tone lacks any accusation or the hard edges of anger, and even then, Atsumu can’t turn around, his mind stuck between _don't say his name_ and _it's been so long, too long since I've heard it_ and Atsumu can’t turn around, can’t bring his eyes up to meet Hajime’s, too green, too kind, too gentle. 

Atsumu runs his tongue over his teeth and tries to remind himself that he’s 26 and not a coward, so he forces himself to sit across from Iwaizumi, slamming his plate with a single piece of toast on the table. 

He takes a bite.

“High school teammate,” Atsumu says, mouth full, and with a false sense of finality.

The toast is turning into glue now, warm and sticky in his mouth, and Atsumu feels discomfort rising in his chest and saline flooding his nose, and he’s still chewing the bread, but it’s kind of disgusting and he doesn’t remember why he even bought this brand in the first place—Shuugo had told him that it had added sugar and that he doesn’t let his kids eat it, and Atsumu’s trying to look anywhere, anywhere but across from him. 

Iwaizumi shifts and now he’s closer to Atsumu, both his forearms on the table, his thumbs clasped together. His hand reaches out, just an inch, because the table’s shitty and small, and Atsumu recoils, unwillingly.

“You loved him?”

Atsumu wants, so badly, to reach over and knock Hajime’s only-black-never-sweet coffee, and watch it spill all over the gray tiled floor and stain Hajime’s ironed work pants, but he doesn’t. 

He stares blankly, instead.

Iwaziumi’s fingers drum on the table, tap tap tap, and his half-smile even more lopsided, and then—“You still love him.” 

Atsumu freezes.

_Tap tap tap._

The refrigerator hums.

Atsumu squeezes the piece of bread in his hand, until his knuckles are pearl-white and his fingernails are digging into his palm, until he can’t feel anything at all.

_Tap._

“You’re in love with someone else, too,” Atsumu spits back, and it has too much venom, too much anger, and he recoils almost immediately. 

He lets go of his shitty, not-Shuugo-approved untoasted slice-now-ball of bread and he’s holding his head in his hands now, his nails digging into his forehead, his head tilted forward, almost like he is a boy who has been caught playing after dark.

“God— fuck—“

Iwaizumi doesn’t say anything, his hand still resting on the table, his eyes glazed over.

“I’m—“

The traffic noise from the street over floats into the room, the sound wavering like incense smoke, the leaves on the houseplant in the corner stop rustling, the room suddenly stifling hot. 

“I’m so sorry.” 

Atsumu breathes. 

His hands drop to his lap now, and he lifts his head to stare at Iwaizumi, who’s looking at him but not At him, and they both know they are remembering someone else, their pasts that they have both been trying to forget and relive all at once—-and then Iwaizumi sighs and falls back into the hard plastic chair, carding his hand through his bedhead, his eye bags purple-green-blue and worse than Atsumu remembers.

Atsumu stares at the porcelain plate in his hands and notices a crack in the center he had never seen before, and tears, white-hot roll down his face, and he’s trying to breathe, but forgetting how.

There are two boys, 26 and 27, sitting in a too-small dining room on a Saturday, looking for futures in places that bear too much resemblance to a past that’s fading at the edges, and they both know this—and this is why they sit, in imperfect silence, as Tokyo begins to bleed into morning, Hajime’s hand wrapped around his coffee gone-cold and Atsumu’s fingernails dragging into the stained wood of his flea-market table—two boys, who are lost and aching and missing, maybe themselves, maybe somebody else.

  
  


*****

  
  
The first time he and Kita had kissed had been in the supply closet, hours after practice.

It had been Atsumu’s first and Kita’s god-knows-what, Kita’s body and heat pressing into Atsumu with such intention, too gentle and too sturdy and too kind. Atsumu remembers, even now, Kita’s hands reaching under his shirt and how they had climbed, so carefully, and how he had shivered.

Shinsuke had whispered something, sliding his finger under Atsumu’s jaw, tilting his head to the side-- and Atsumu had stared at Shinsuke, with his long eyelashes and clear yellow eyes and his black-white bangs, messy from practice, and had thought, with such startling immediacy, _lovemelovemelovemeIwantyoutoloveme_ —and Shinsuke had just smiled, eyes crinkling at the edges, and leaned in again.

Atsumu squeezes his eyes shut until his head aches, but he doesn’t remember the last time they had. It had probably been too ordinary to be the last one, too ordinary to memorialize. A goodbye kiss with no goodbye written under his tongue, a goodbye that was meant to be _I will see you later, I will see you again, one day._

  
  


*****

  
  
“Oikawa’s coming back for a month.” Iwaizumi says, with no subtext, no grand announcement, but they both know what this means.

It had been a week since Atsumu’s dream and the dining room scene that followed, and the both of them have been walking around each other at practice, measured smiles and quiet train rides to Atsumu’s apartment-- Hinata had asked him whether anything had happened, and Atsumu had smiled and said something with _Shoyo-kun_ and then Hinata had decided to sit with him in the corner of the gym with the clanging pipes and uneven heating, until evening. 

Now, Atsumu shifts, pulling his legs closer to his chest, his head turned to the side and his cheek pressed against his knees. He’s playing with his keychain, turning it over between his forefinger and his thumb. 

“To visit?”

“Yeah.” Iwaizumi clears his throat. “I talked to him over the phone the other day and--” he frowns at the almost-empty bowl of soup in front of him, the leftover pieces of tofu swirling, “--and he just said he wanted to visit his family, his nephew misses him, and to pick up some things--” 

Atsumu straightens up at this, and smiles, crookedly, keychain looped around his index finger.

“It’s okay. You don’t need to explain.” 

“Oh.” Iwaizumi scratches his cheek, and then the both of them sit there for a split second, letting the purple of the dusk air wash over the room, the fluorescent lightbulb that Atsumu keeps forgetting to replace flickers above their heads, their upstairs neighbors blasting some bubblegum pop song on loop. 

“Yeah.” Atsumu lets the keys drop on the table and he pushes his chair back. 

He’s in the doorway of the kitchen when he turns around, and he looks at Hajime, sitting at the too-small table and he looks at their wilted houseplant and his ugly curtains---

“Hey, Hajime?” Iwaizumi tilts his head to the side. Atsumu smiles. “I hope it works out.” And Atsumu means this, he means it with a disgusting amount of sincerity, enough to hate himself, and something bitter is rising in his throat but he has already turned his back to this life, the one with Iwaizumi, with _Hajime,_ and he is walking up the stairs and he is saying _don’tlookbackdon’tlookback._

Atsumu knows that Hajime will be gone come morning and that he will wake up to ultramarine blue silence, the winter breeze sneaking back into the floorboards, and Iwaizumi will already be halfway to Miyagi, Tooru falling into him like the sun.

  
  


*****

  
  
Autumn is harvest season.

The fields stretch out, sienna yellow and sap green, the morning sun tinged cerulean, the ears hanging heavy under the weight of rice, rustling with the breeze. 

Shinsuke stands, knee-deep in mud, like he does every morning, sweat trickling down his cheek and into the crevices of his collarbones, the sky loud and large in his ears. He kneels and slashes each stalk with careful intention, to the rhythm of his breath, and to the rhythm of the earth.

He stands up, hours later, when indigo starts to mottle the edges of the sky, and he wipes the sweat from his forehead and smiles. 

After autumn will come winter, with the snow piling and furnace heat, and then spring, planting season, and then the sweltering heat of summer, with cream-white blossoms, and then it will be autumn again, with its amber-yellow mornings and blue-mahogany evenings, and Shinsuke, always there, knife grasped in one hand and stalk in the other, unwavering.

  
  


*****

  
  
In his dream, Atsumu had been lying in bed, and Kita had been next to him, still soundly asleep.

The room was small and had wooden floors and walls and was filled with only sky and the sound of Shinsuke’s breath—and Atsumu had laid there for a long time, watching the rise and fall of Kita’s chest and his hand curled on the pillow. And it had been too much to just watch, and Atsumu had reached out to touch his body, because it had been so real and solid and _there_ —his fingers unfurling and reaching, and it had just been a quiet _Shinsuke,_ half-whispered. 

And then the dream had begun to melt away, and Atsumu had started grasping at anything, but the yellow-gold had already gone to indigo-purple, and he had been floating.

Just _Shinsuke_ and then the cold. 

Now, in his empty house on a Tuesday evening, Atsumu brings his fingers, shaking, to his lips, and says it again.

The city is wrapped with sleep and his neighbors away for the week—-and Atsumu says it again, the guilt piling and flooding in his chest and his throat with each passing second, his vision blurry, tears spilling over his eyes and rolling down his cheeks. 

He knows that he is shameful and that he should be ashamed, but he makes no motion to wipe them away, instead letting them sink into the worn cotton of his shirt collar—his body too numb, just the whisper of hot breath and his calluses pressed into his chapped lips, and the empty, too-large room. 

He realizes he’s trembling.

Atsumu bows his head, and his face crumples, and he says it, again and again and again, each time louder and more desperate, like a hymn, like a prayer.

_Shinsuke._

_Shinsuke._

_Shinsuke._

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> hello : )
> 
> kudos and comments r always appreciated!
> 
> [here ](https://twitter.com/atskta)is my twitter and [here](https://curiouscat.qa/osakis) is my cc  
> this will probably be my last fic for a bit since... college app season is upon us so ... catch u on the flipside my loves! i will see u again in January.. february!! fear not !!! I LOVE U stay safe this is the 3rd time I'm editing this but yes.... i hope u enjoyed
> 
> title is from "scheherazade" by Richard siken  
> the grocery store scene was inspired by "our beautiful life when it's filled with shrieks" which is [ here](https://www.rattle.com/our-beautiful-life-when-its-filled-with-shrieks-by-christopher-citro/)
> 
> the atsuiwa was reignited with birdcat's beautiful heartbreaking absolutely out of pocket [swimsleep](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25707742) and my atsukita solely revolves around batman's [come morning](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25707742) so please check those out!


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